Glorious Freedom
by EverydayMagic17
Summary: No one knew quite what to make of the woman who stumbled from the Breach. Elven, but NOT DALISH DAMNIT! She was tall and sturdy for her race, cursed like a drill-sergeant in multiple languages, and a mercenary who thought the whole 'Herald of Andraste' thing was so much bunk. Reva's past was a mystery, even to Leliana and the elf wasn't telling...
1. Chapter 1 The Prisoner

The prisoner was tall, and heavily built for an elf, with curves that belonged on a heroine of one of Tethras' novels, was Cassandra's first impression, when she was circling her, hoping to unnerve the being. Coppery hair escaped the elaborate braids to trail into large gray-blue-green eyes, as the woman remained stoic, and monosyllabic, even when threatened. Cassandra prided herself at being able to read people, but the blank mask put over the genuine confusion stymied her, frustrated her, making her more violent than perhaps she ought to have been. Still, it made Leliana's 'nice guard' act, a more effective contrast, or it _should_ have...

"What is _this?_ " Cassandra demanded, yanking on the elf's left arm, forcing her to look at the glowing mark, the same sickly poison green as the rifts, and the Breach. The large eyes, for such a narrow face, but not unattractively so, widened, with horror and disgust.

"I...don't know!" The elf looked at her hand as if it wasn't attached to her, or she wanted to cut it off. Leliana prompted the elf to search her memories, the stylized dragon tattoo climbing the prisoner's cheek to curl around her eye, furrowed as she though, giving an unsettling impression that the image moved on its own.

"There was... a disturbance... I went me to look into it as the one in charge of the Divine's mercenaries..." The eyes drifted shut, as the woman concentrated, lips tightening, then an abruptly panicked look crossed her face for half an instant. "There's a... a gap... like something or someone... _cut out_ my memories!" The elf shook, blanching even paler than she already was, a sick expression twisting her lips, before the mask snapped back in place. She spoke in the same quiet monotone she'd started the recollections with.

"A blast of green...I wake up. Everything hurts, especially my hand, it's like someone put fire essence in a fresh wound... Everything is twisted, blasted... Things are chasing me... like spiders but...worse... I afraid, but they're forcing terror on me...demons. They have to be demons..."

Cassandra realized that the elf was reliving the events as if they were happening _now_ , her face twitching with ghosts of expressions trying to make themselves seen. "No weapons... I have a concussion, at least two broken ribs and a sprained wrist, I can't fight them. I have to run... Maker have mercy, it hurts like dragon-fire...ground twisting even as my feet touch down... I see rocks floating... Eerie green sky...Creators save me, _I am in the Beyond in the flesh!_ " The elf pants, ears flattened to her skull, a response that usually indicated fear, pain or anger, in this case, it seems to be all three.

"This is wrong...wrong, so wrong... Now, I'm climbing... there's a woman, she's glowing golden, so bright it hurts to look at...I feel the demon made fear leaving, she's reaching out to me...the things are closer...She shoves me through the tear as they drag her off..."

Slate colored eyes opened slowly, as Leliana left, and Cassandra unchained her, then bound her hands in front of her, telling the Left Hand that they will meet at the forward camp.

"What _did_ happen?" The elf's voice is quiet, smooth despite the rasp of pain and dehydration, with a raw edge of hidden fear to it. Cassandra felt a surge of sympathy, despite herself.

"It will be easier to show you." the Seeker sighed, ushering her prisoner outside. The way the elf moved, was a clear indication that the apostate elf, Solas, was correct in his surmise that the Mark was killing it's bearer; the prisoner was trying to hide the fact that she was moving as if every bone ached.

The Breach flared, and the elf dropped to her knees, with a cut-off cry. Despite herself, Cassandra was impressed at her self-control, having seen the near-convulsions of agony when the other was unconscious, unable to mask the pain, and a flare occurred, then explained about the connection.

"If they are connected, then it is possible that I can affect _it_ , because it affect me, maybe stabilize the Breach, or close the rifts." The quick leap of thinking startled the Seeker.

"That is the thought, yes." To her surprise, the prisoner sends her a small, tired smile at the brusque reply.

"Then I'd best get on it, then, shouldn't I?"

"Th-then you'll-" Cassandra grimaces internally at her surprise-induced stutter.

"Of course. Humans aren't the only ones who live in this world. Besides," There was a fey, feral look in the ice blue eyes that sent a shiver down the Seeker's spine, "It isn't as if I have anything to lose by trying, whether I fail or not." She'd seen that look before, in trapped foes, who realized thy had nothing left to lose, so death ceased to have meaning beyond ending the fight. They were always the most dangerous, not caring if or how badly they were hurt, as they strove to take down ans many with them as possible...

The townsfolk and soldiers' jeering and threats made Cassandra grit her teeth, as she tried to explain their behavior to the blank-faced woman beside her, feeling it was somehow owed to her, moving to cut her hands free, once they were outside the gate, only for the elf to simply slip the bindings off.

"You-" The elf's lips twisted wryly at her reaction.

"Yes, I could have done that at any time since you bound me, but I didn't. This is hardly the first time I've been blamed for disasters that happen around me. Hazard of being always the outsider." Cassandra was certain that the elf had no idea of the wistful, bitter edge to those words, the loneliness they revealed.

"Surely your Clan..." The Seeker said, both probing, and trying to provide comfort, much to her confusion. She wasn't good with emotions. The elf gave an incredulous snort.

"You thought I was Dalish?" The mild amusement, was cut off as another pulse made the elf stumble, and lean on Cassandra for support.

"The style of tattoo indicates as much," Leliana had thought the prisoner was Dalish, as had the apostate, who'd seemed mildly annoyed by the fact.

"I might have been rescued and lived with a Clan long enough to get the start of a _vallaslin_ , but like I said, not my first time being blamed for disasters. In that case, flood, plague, bandits and then a fire. The _seth'lin_ flat-ear I was, wa _s_ kicked out before I turned thirteen. Since I had the start of a tattoo, that was supposed to bind me to them, I decided that I'd finish it in a way that declared my independence."

"Why a dragon, then?

"What is stronger, or freer than a dragon? _Fehendris_!"

Cassandra internally agreed with the sentiment, as a bolt from the Breach destroyed the bridge and sent them tumbling onto the mercifully still-solid ice below. It was a bruising landing, but falling into the water in this cold, would be quickly fatal. Less fortunately, the blast carried a number of shades to earth with it.

"Stay behind me!" The seeker bellowed, her sword leaping to her hand without conscious thought, and attacked with a bellow designed to draw the attention _away_ from the vulnerable prisoner behind her. She was occupied with the two shades she faced, when a yelp from the elf, and a death-screech from a shade told Cassandra that the prisoner, their only hope, wasn't safe.

The alarm that flowed through her at that, was enough of a distraction, that she did not recover from killing the first shade quite fast enough. The Seeker braced herself for a blow that would surely take at least any eye, if not her life, when the second shade arched around the sword protruding from its chest, and a second swept through the approximation or a neck, killing it, whisping away, leaving her face to face with the prisoner.

"I think that was the last of these ones... I hope. These things are little better than pot-metal." The elf said, swaying. Blood coated half her face in a grotesque parody of an Orlesian actor portraying a demon, from a cut that narrowly missed her left eye. Beneath it, the woman was paler than ever, the grey undertones a worrisome sign. Cassandra pointed her sword at the woman.

"Lay down your arms." The elf blinked at her, then sighed, slowly bending to place the- indeed they were of very poor quality- swords on the ice, her movements both reluctant and with the care of one who was feeling decidedly light-headed.

"Very well, Lady Seeker. As you wish." the tone was mild.

"Wait." Cassandra sheathed her own sword, hiding the reluctance she felt at making the gesture of trust. "I should remember that you agreed to help willingly, and it is clear I cannot protect you. You will need them."

Cassandra was more easily able to read the prisoner now, the trick was not body-language or expression, but to look in her eyes. The relief, and measure of trust in the cerulean orbs at that instant was nearly as unsettling as the reluctant liking that was hidden beneath.

"You seemed to be doing quite well at protecting me, from where I stood," There was a wicked lilt to her voice, and smirk that warned Cassandra "Just not so great at keeping yourself intact." Cassandra fixed the other with a glare, not at all comfortable with the fact that she was quickly gaining a good deal of admiration for the prisoner, and the burgeoning doubt about the guilt she'd assigned to the elf.

"Take these, we do not know what we will be facing." She shoved half the elfroot potions at the other. The woman gave her a small smile, and tucked them away in a pouch, displaying the fact that she'd -somehow- picked a number of fresh elfroot plants on the way, without Cassandra noticing. Another pulse of the Breach had the Seeker catching the elf, and forcing her to drink one of the potions. Some color returned to the others face, as the facial cut sealed over to a fading pink line.

" _Vashedan_! Why can't healers come up with potions that don't taste like nug- _kaffas_?!"

"You've sworn in three different languages." Cassandra noted as they dodged attacks from shades up on the hillside they were trying to climb.

"The Chaos Squalls was primarily Tal-Vashoth and Tevinter ex-patriots, with a few Antivans and Rivani, all of them foul-mouthed. It tends to rub off." Well, Cassandra could hardly argue with that assessment of the effects of the proximity of soldiers...

Translations:

 _Vallaslin_ \- blood writing, traditional Dalish tattoos, marking adulthood

 _Seth'lin_ \- 'thin-blood' Dalish insult for non-Dalish elves

 _Fehendris_ \- Dalish expletive, equivalent to 'crap', 'shit' or 'damn'

 _Vashedan-_ Qunlat expletive

 _Kaffas_ \- Tevinter for 'shit'

_ **A/N: I'm only going to put translations up for Qunlat, Tevene, or Elvhen that haven't gone up in previous chapters. DAI is the reason to blame for much of my disappearance...Three complete play-throughs... No, I'm not obsessed, what makes you think that? *Winks* ~ EM17**


	2. Chapter 2 That's a Mouthful

Varric was very grateful when an elf appeared out of nowhere, to slice the terror that's been about to gut him, into two. The redhead shot him a feral grin, before dancing across the top of the snow, twin swords whirling in curtains of steel as she spun a deadly dance around the wounded soldiers, covering Solas expertly, as the other elf used ice to freeze opponents for her to shatter.

The instant that the demons were gone, Solas seized her glowing hand, _shit, this was the one everyone was blaming_ , and the rift closed with an explosion of green lightning and a thunder-crack.

"One, you are lucky you didn't get a reflexive blade to the gut, grabbing me in the middle of a fight like that, _dirthara-ma_!" The redhead snarled at Solas, turning so that she faced Varric and the mage, putting Cassandra at her back. Curious, she trusted the woman that had been raring to execute her, that much? "Two, what the _venhedis_ did you do to close that _fasta vass_?!" The bald elf blinked and answered with his irritating calm still intact.

"I did nothing, that was you."

" _Vishante kaffas!_ Well at least this _saar-raas_ is good for _something_." She snapped. Varric watched her watching the responses they gave to Cassandra. When the smirking dwarf told her of Solas' role in keeping her alive, she responded in elvish, giving a short bow, with her hand in a fist over her heart.

" _Ma serranas, mala'hilani_." Varric grumbled theatrically about not being able to understand, and pointed out that she had yet to give her name. A flash of teeth in a wicked smirk was the first crack in the blank mask.

" _Emma_ Revas'hanin Ferissima Adaar." Varric turned to the mildly amused Solas, as Cassandra stomped on in the lead, not even trying to pretend that she wasn't eavesdropping on every word.

"Translation, Chuckles?" The glare from the bald elf, was the same as every time he'd used the nickname so far.

"She thanked me for my help, then said that her name was Revas'hanin Ferissima Adaar."

"That's a mouthful of a name." Varric prodded with a smirk at the, rather tall and strongly built for her race, elf.

"The translation's worse, Master Tethras."

"Varric, please. Master Tethras is- was my brother. Care to share?"

"Freedom's glory, the wildest, weapon. In Elvhen, Tevinter and Qunlat respectively." His 'story worth digging for' senses were going wild, but it was Solas who asked, not Varric.

"Interesting names for a Dalish elf."

"Oh for-! I. Am. Not. Dalish!" The snarl would've done Broody in a bad mood proud, low and animalistic, her teeth bared in what was definitely _not_ a smile, showing oddly sharp canines.

"Yet you bear a _vallaslin_ , do you not?" Solas said, keeping a careful eye on the fist clenched around a hilt. Varric thought that wise, as the mage had clearly touched on a nerve, without meaning to.

"Well, if a group that took you in and gave you shelter abruptly blames you for ill-luck and decides to sacrifice the _seth'lin_ flat-ear to Fen'Harel, to end said bad luck, and changes her markings from honoring the Huntress, to declaring her a sacrifice to the Dread Wolf, one can hardly be blamed for feeling no kinship. Especially if it coincided with her twelve year old self showing up the Keeper's spoiled, qualaba-brained brat of a son. Nor can one blame her for having the markings covered and changed." The way Revas-something, _eh Varric would just call her 'Reva' until he could come up with something better,_ cut through the group of demon's blocking the way, was especially vicious, as she spoke. Solas had definitely flinched. Interesting...

"You would not be the first to fall victim to Dalish superstition, and won't be the last." Solas' mild tone held annoyance for once, but his eyes were hard with anger.

" _Seth'lin_ or flat-ear?" Was Reva's sardonic query as she snapped shut the rift blocking the gate to the forward camp.

"Both, and _Harellan_ , when I tried to tell what I'd seen of the Ancient Elves while wandering the Fade." Solas said, frowning.

" _Ma somiar'aravas_?" Reva said slowly, as the gates were opened slowly. Solas's eyes widened then narrowed suspiciously.

 _"_ _Ir_..." He drew the word out slightly, tension in his posture.

" _Dirthera'tel, ne dareth, Hahren_." The woman said in a tone indicating a reassuring promise, and a touch of reproach. Solas bowed his head, hiding a smirk.

" _Ma serannas, da'len,"_

"I'm not a child, I am twenty-four, _belannar_!" The indignant response was the last Solas got, as Reva's attention was transferred to Chancellor Roderick and his vitriolic hate towards her. Varric listened, feeling that she was far to calm in response to the blustering idiot. He would've had Bianca give the arrogant sod a little 'hello', in her place...

 _Dirithar-ma_ \- 'may you learn', used as a Dalish curse

 _Vehendis (lasa)-_ elvish expletive

 _Vishante kaffas_ \- 'you shit on my tongue' in Tevene

 _Saar-raas-_ 'scary thing' qunlat literally 'dangerous something' (extrapolation on my part)

 _Ma serranas_ \- my thanks

 _Mala'hilani_ \- for your help (roughly)

 _emma-_ I am

 _vallaslin-_ blood writing, aka the Dalish tattoos given to mark adulthood

 _Harellan_ \- traitor or trickster, referring to Fen'Harel

 _Ma somiar'aravas?-_ you are a Dreamer? (lit. dreamer-journeyer, my invention)

 _Ir_ \- yes, lit 'very', similar to how Latin for 'no' (minime) means 'very little'

 _Dirthera'tel-_ I won't tell lit. 'tell-not'

 _Ne Dareth-_ you are safe lit. 'you be safe'

 _Hahren_ \- Elder or teacher, term of respect for someone older

 _Da'len_ \- small child, little one, a term of endearment for someone younger

 _Belannar-_ old one lit. 'of many years' (taken from the Dalish name for Flemeth 'Ashi'belannar or woman of many years)

 **A/N: My elvish and qunlat is taking alot of creative liscense to the Dragon Age Wiki entries provided material. I might end up throwing in LotR elvish to fill things out, if I get stuck... anyhooo... *whistles innocently*-EM17**


	3. Chapter 3 That's Something, At Least

Cullen winced as a terror's claws swiped on the shoulder or his armor, getting an earsplitting screech from the metal. He was getting sloppier the longer this endless fight against the rift went on and on, his skill being dulled by fatigue. Soon he would be making mistakes that would get him injured, or killed. Maker help them all, if this wasn't ended soon.

"Ar las enasalin!" With a whoop, an elven woman, red-gold braid trailing behind her, spun into the demon like a deadly dervish of muscle and swords, luring it with taunting strikes, towards the Seeker. Fresher than Cullen, she made short work of the thing, while the elf drew the other monsters away from Cullen's weary, and wounded men. The relief made the ex-templar's sword and shield lighter, and his men fought with renewed hope.

There was a deafening _crack_ of thunder, and when Cullen spun, it was to see the rift shut, and Cassandra and the elf leaning on each other with eerily similar grimaces, completely coated in demon... goop. He wasn't sure the substance could be called blood.

"You closed it, Seeker!" Cullen's relief was probably far more obvious than he would truly prefer, but... Andraste's arse he was tired, and bruised from head to toe, under his armor. Most of his men were in worse shape, with injuries that the elven apostate, Solas, was tending, while using as little mana to reduce the severity, as possible.

"It wasn't me, Commander. The Prisoner insisted on closing this rift for the men, before heading up the back way to the temple, in hopes of recovering the missing patrol." Cassandra's reply left the man blinking.

"Thank you, ser..." He managed to stutter at the elf, who was noticeably tall and husky for her race, and busy winding her thick braid back onto her head, pinning it in place with a stiletto dagger, instead of a hairpin.

"Call me Reva, everyone does...did... Or Lieutenant Fierce if my people were feeling irked with me..." Her face twisted, with grief and anger. "That was before the world blew up, and killed my company, Void take it!" The snarl devolved into a muttered curse. "I'm not inclined to let this damned bronto- _kaffas_ of a situation claim anymore lives. Which means, we need to move out, as soon as Solas has finished stabilizing the last of the wounded."

"I am ready, _da'len_."

" _Belennar_ ," Reva sneered, bounding off, as Cullen helped Ser Lanek limp back to the forward camp, for further treatment.

An hour later, Cullen was doing his level best to _not_ get hit with the blasted Pride demon's lightning whips. His mind was still reeling from the Fade-echo of the Divine's last moments. Reva, Solas, Varric and Cassandra were getting the worst of it, though.

Suddenly, a backhand from the demon sent the apostate flying, to land, unconscious, after hitting one of the ruined walls of the temple, and tossing the Seeker off of her feet. A massive, clawed foot descended towards the sprawled woman, her sword and shield just beyond her reach-

"NO!" Reva shouted, pointing her sword at the Seeker. Cullen's templar-trained ability to sense magic crackled, as a barrier sprang into being around Cassandra, the magic visibly running down the elf's sword to make the demon stagger back upon hitting an unexpected resistance.

"You're a _mage_?" Cassandra yelped, back on her feet. Well, if the Seeker hadn't pegged her, with fighter her way from Haven with Reva, Cullen was hardly surprised that he hadn't either, even if it bothered him.

" _Dirth'ena enasalin_ \- you'd call it 'arcane warrior' or 'knight enchanter'," The elf hissed as a shade's claw caught her across her side.

"Why didn't you tell me? And why can't I sense you as a mage?"

"Is this really the time, Seeker?" Varric snapped.

"You blamed me for this mess already; I'm crazy, not suicidal, lady. I've learned to turn all my magic inwards. All my mana instantly is converted to physical enhancement, or imbuing my weapons and armor, leaving none to be sensed by templars or mages. It is useful to survival. Can we focus on _killing_ this _vehendris lasa_ demon?" The elf definitely had a point

Even as she said that, one of Varric's bolts lodged in one of the half-dozen eyes of the demon, and it stumbled over a rock, falling to it's knees. Seemingly of one mind, Cassandra knelt, bracing her shield over head, and _tossed_ Reva at the Pride demon's face. The elf's swords sank deep into the chest and throat, and the monstrosity fell backwards. The woman rolled free, absorbing the momentum, to end on her feet, left hand glowing green as she held it up to the rift and Breach.

"Ahh!" The scream echoed, as some invisible weight seemed to crush Reva, slowly, to one knee. Her arm shook, even as she braced it, a line of sickly green magic arcing between her Mark and the massive rift. The edges slammed shut, and sealed, the backwash of power throwing everyone backwards. Dazed, flat on his back, Cullen noticed that while the Breach wasn't sealed, the edges no longer pulsed, and wavered wildly. It seemed...stable, if such a word could be applies to a huge tear in reality.

He slowly sat up, heart sinking at the limp, huddled form on the ground by the statue. The only one capable of closing rifts, or the Breach, was far too still for comfort.

"Is she..." Varric's voice trailed off, weakly.

"She lives, just." Solas said, after kneeling beside his fellow elf. "The amount of power she used drained her life-energy, not just her mana. If even a tiny amount more had been required, then our savior would have died, as she was too stubborn to stop, even when she realized the price she was paying." It was the most anyone had gotten out of the laconic apostate at once, Cullen was certain.

"Will she recover?" Cassandra's voice betrayed the fact that the elf and dwarf weren't Reva's only supporters, in her concern.

"Yes. It will be at least three days before she awakens, though. Her body needs time to replenish itself from the massive strain it was put through. The good news is, that the Mark appears to be stable, and no longer killing her."

"That is... something at least."

 _Ar las enasalin_ \- Give me victory now

 _Dirth'ena enasalin-_ 'the path that leads to victory' an elvhen term for arcane warrior

 **A/N: short, I know, but...**


	4. Chapter 4 Nightengale's Eyes

Leliana watched the elf, Revas'hanin Ferissima Adaar, or Reva, as she'd reacted to the Chancellor, her new title, and the formation of the Inquisition. Reva was good, the bard had to admit, showing a blank face to every new shock dumped on her. It wasn't until Cullen asked her flat out what she thought f being called 'The Herald of Andraste', that Leliana could get a read on her.

"You lot are mad. Stark raving mad. I am-was a mercenary, a very good one, about to take over my Company as my Captain retired. I'm not even human, and while I can recite the Chant forwards, backwards, and probably even sideways, I don't believe in Andraste and the Maker any more than I do the Qun, or the elvhen Creators. If you want me to kill things, or charm nobles into paying you a bonus, I am your woman. Be a religious icon? I'd rather find the nearest dragon and feed myself to it." She said flatly, glaring at all of them. Even Josie was only able to get the elf to agree to not argue with those who called her Herald.

That had been before Reva had taken Cass, Varric and Solas and stabilize the Hinterlands. That'd been more involved than anticipated, with scouts bringing back reports of nearly a dozen rifts closed, and the strongholds of templar an apostate alike razed with cold efficiency. Apparently, nothing pissed of the Herald more than those who victimized innocents. Bandits had also been removed from a stronghold, and stashes left by the apostates appropriated for refugees, as well as an entire day spent hunting rams to feed the hungry. The horses were on their way, Reva having build cleverly disguised watchtowers out of available materials, which would allow attackers to be spotted without realizing their approach was known.

Leliana's agents were building a picture of who the Herald was, piece by piece, through her actions. She was sympathetic to the common folk, going out of her way to help them. She relished a challenge, having taken out three heavily defended, strategic positions with only her team, and was effective enough of a leader that Cassandra willingly surrendered command and tactics to her. Also, she was apparently a mother-hen about those under her command, fussing over the scouts, and bullying her team into seeing Inquisition healers, after a run-in that ended in a dead High Dragon, before letting anyone see to her.

Her actions had won no few recruits from the Hinterlands, especially near Redcliffe, young men and veterans of the Blight alike flocking to the woman who'd argued -quite audibly- with her advisers, in order to spend more time ensuring the safety of the refugees and farmers. The tale of Reva leading home a prize druffalo that'd wandered too close to a rift for safety, was making the rounds, as was the story of her taking a lightning bolt, without even a barrier, to cover a small child that'd tripped and fallen as her family fled combat. Another favorite was Reva finding a demon-controlled wolf-pack, and killing the demon to free the wolves, only to adopt the orphaned mabari-wolf mix that was the only surviving pup. She had even found and recruited the Warden, Blackwall.

"I see you didn't feed yourself to the dragon, after all, Herald." To Leliana's hidden disappointment, the other woman didn't start, even though she'd not turned her head away from staring up at the Breach. Pointed ears twitched slightly under braids a half shade brighter than the spymaster's own hair.

"Hard to sneak up on someone with elvhen hearing on gravel, especially if they have Dalish training, Lady Nightingale. As for being dragon chow, you should extend your thanks to Lady Seeker Cassandra, and the habit of staying alive that has become rather ingrained at this point. I doubt, however, that is why the Inquisition's Spymaster took time out of her eternally busy schedule to seek me out on the walls." A wry grin twisted the left side of Reva's lips.

"Despite you rather unusual name, my people have been able to find very little on you. Lieutenant Reva was well known in Tully's Hounds, and Little Adaar was known in the Valo-Kaas Mercenaries before vanishing suddenly, but beyond that... Nothing. None of the Dalish Clans that didn't run my people off on sight admit to knowing you." Leliana said bluntly; she had the feeling that Reva would respond better to plain speaking, than the circumlocution most expected of her position. A light chuckle, that almost hid the dark bitterness in the storm-grey eyes.

"No Dalish would admit to having ever even seen, much less housed and trained someone who was later left as a sacrifice to the Dread Wolf."

"Oh? What about your middle name? It sounds very Tevinter." Leliana pressed. Reva turned, tall enough to look her directly in the eye, and arched a brow at the human redhead.

"It does, doesn't it. Of course, there are several Dalish Clans up near the border of Tevinter, and they're more skittish than most, barely willing to talk to other Dalish Clans, much less strangers and shems. I was hardly happy in the years before I was adopt4ed into the Valo-Kaas." The look she threw over her shoulder was challenging, as she headed towards the nearest stairs down.

 **A/N: Two chapters in one day... you must be lucky...**


	5. Chapter 5 Val Royeaux

Vivienne, immaculately masked and coiffed in one of the ridiculous contraptions of hoops and petticoats that were the current fashion, watched the gathering that had come to hear the Revered Mothers speak out against the Inquisition, closely. It wouldn't be hard to spot the Inquisition, Seeker Pentaghast was hardly subtle, and by all report, neither was the Herald. The gasps and mutters proved her right- partially. An armed and armored elf had woven her way to the front, unnoticed, while the Seeker bulled after. Vivienne sat back, figuratively, and watched the drama unfold.

When the templar struck the Revered Mother Hanna, Vivienne wasn't the only one shocked and dismayed. Moving faster than should be possible, even for a Knight-Enchanter, the Herald had the templar offender's arm in a grip that was slowly deforming the metal of his bracer, ignoring his attempts to free himself.

"Are you proud of yourself, ser? Are you proud of striking down a defenseless old woman for no greater crime that speaking her mind?" A wave of her free hand had the elven mage dressed as a hobo kneeling beside the priestess, spirit magic lighting his hands.

" 'All men are the work of our Maker's hands.

From the lowest slaves

To the highest kings.

Those who bring harm

Without provocation to the least of His children

Are hated and Accursed by the Maker.' " The Herald quoted the Chant, her voice carrying more due to the planned acoustics of the architecture than how she spoke, her entire body betraying her focus on her captive, and the men behind him, even as the crowd whispered and stared.

"You swore oaths to the Maker to protect mages from the fearful, and to protect the innocent from those few mages that fell prey to demons and blood-magic. What I see is a band of _thugs_ who willingly ignore their duties or forswear themselves in pursuit of their desire for worldly power, grown full of sloth and rage in their pride. I see a hollowed shade of the once-honorable Order," Oh, the Herald was clever, putting only the faintest of stresses on the names of the most well-known demons. Even as she spoke, she released the templar, in such a manner that the force made him stagger back into the dark-skinned templar who had protested, who in turn stepped aside with a look of pure disgust.

"You swore to protect the innocent from magic and demons; _look!_ " An outstretch hand, sparking with green lightning pointed at the Breach.

" _That_ is the real enemy! How better to serve and protect than to close the tear in the Veil that rains demons upon the unprotected? How better to uphold your oaths sworn to the Maker and Andraste?! I can close the Breach, but not alone, just as Andraste could not topple the empire without her followers, just as the Warden could not reach the Archdemon without an army at her back! I am but one woman, one flawed, scared woman, but the Breach threatens all of us, threatens to destroy our world, even as we fight amongst ourselves! Can we not put aside our differences, and take up common cause against this foe?" The Herald's voice rang out, musical and compelling, like a blessed herald in truth, then softened, gentled.

"Commander Cullen believes in you, that you are good men and women at heart. That you could provide the solution to closing the Breach, and he was once a templar himself. He has stood by this opinion when even the Nightingale has lost faith, will you reward his trust? Will you rise to the challenge, be a light in the shadows? Will-ahhh!" The Herald wavered, the Seeker moving to support her, and waved away, as Lord Seeker Lucius cast an over-powered Silence on her.

"You dare!" Pentaghast snarled, hand going to her sword in her protective rage, only for the simple touch of the Herald's fingertips on her wrist to stop her.

"He proves only his weakness and fear, Cassandra, in resorting to using a Silence on me, as I speak nothing more than the truth, and ' All things are known to our Maker,'. If he did not fear my words, then he would not have felt the need to try to silence me, and thus lend credence to what I say. He would silence those who speak their heart, and the truth, he has shown this twice over now. He isn't worthy of your blade, which has only ever served to protect the innocent." Everyone was in awe of how fast the Herald had recovered from the Silence, but Vivienne spotted the empty vial for half an instant, as it caught the sun, even as the Herald slipped it back in her sleeve. Still, the vial had been tiny, less than half the smallest dose mages commonly used, meaning that it'd been mostly force of will and magic that allowed her to speak mere seconds later.

The Seeker persisted in chasing after the retreating templars, but the Herald, ignoring the gradually dispersing crowd of nobles knelt beside Mother Hanna, hidden concern in her gaze. Vivienne didn't wait long enough to catch what was said, but signaled her messenger that he was to approach the Herald for her.

"I'm afraid I don't duel the unarmed." The Herald said with a slight smirk, making Vivienne pause, waiting to hear what would be said, rather than freeze the offending Marquis, as she'd intended.

"What?" The fellow sputtered, his weapon half-drawn.

"Oh, were you not challenging me to a duel of wits?" The Herald sounded falsely innocent, "Because that is the only type of duel that would not be grossly crass and barbaric, not to mention abusive and contemptuous of the hospitality so graciously provided, and accepted, as denoted by our being here. It would be so uncouth to attempt to commit violence in another's home, don't you agree?" she finished smoothly, making no few genuine laughs sneak past the nobles' guard at the Marquis' discomfiture.

"Why you- I will not stand here and be insulted by some jumped-up, presumptuous knife-eared little bitch claiming to be the Herald of Andraste!" This time, Vivienne did freeze him, but the Herald simply looked at him with faintly amused disdain.

"Poor little man, did I bruise your masculine pride? It must be so delicate if a few comments from, how did you put it, 'a jumped up, presumptuous knife-eared little bitch claiming to be the Herald of Andraste', was it?" The Herald bowed respectfully to Vivienne. "I must thank you for the invitation, Madame, your home is lovely, and most of the company congenial."

"It is my honor to host the Herald of Andraste. What would you like me to do with the Marquis?" Vivienne asked, with a gentle smile that sent shudders through most of her guests, testing the Herald.

"Please, Lady Vivienne, do not let me interfere with how you run your household, and deal with those who violate the rules of hospitality. After all, most of what he said was blatant falsehoods."

"Oh, and what are those, darling?"

"I have never claimed to be the Herald of Andraste, that is not a title for mere mortals to bestow. I am hardly jumped up and presumptuous, as I am here on your gracious invitation. As for 'knife-eared little bitch', well I am hardly petite, particularly for my race. While my ears are sharply pointed, and can hear better than a human's I rather doubt that they could cut warm butter, and it is a slur that has long ceased to do anything but amuse me. I've heard it out of the mouths of everyone from Tevinter slaves in Minrathous, to beggars in Kirkwall, to merchants in Denerim, all of them thinking themselves original, clever and offensive, Madame Du Fer." The cold smirk was a perfect match to the best players of the Game. It was in that moment, that Vivienne decided that, yes, joining the Inquisition was the best possible choice she could have made.

"I don't trust you." The ride back to Haven made Vivienne aware that in most things, the Herald, who vociferously preferred 'Reva', was in fact, painfully blunt. It was almost refreshing, to realize that the reactions she saw, were the genuine ones, for once, _if_ she could get a reaction in the first place, that is. The elf was irritatingly good at both keeping up a facade better than any jeweled mask, and provoking reactions from the Knight-Enchanter, seemingly delighting in irritating the mage.

"Then why accept me into the Inquisition, then, darling?"

"Because I'd rather have your skill not directed against me, even better have it directed at my enemies. Because I'd rather you were under Leliana and Josephine's supervision. Because I want to pick your brains on the difference between Knight-Enchanters and Arcane Warriors. Because you scare the shit out of most of the Orlesian Court, which is a valuable tool. Because, despite not trusting you, I find your wicked comments amusing and am warming to you. Because you have a fabulous fashion sense. Because I subscribe to the 'Keep your enemies closer' philosophy. Because knowledgeable and combat experienced mages are hard to find. Because I find you attractive. Take your pick, Madame Du Fer." Reva said, apparently completely comfortable without a bridle on the massive warhorse, and only the lightest of bareback pads, to prevent horse and rider from chafing.

It should have been comical, the red-haired elf, slender and delicate, especially in comparison to the fiery charger, bred to carry a chevalier in full plate, sitting on the golden steed. Instead, she looked like a warrior out of legend, sun turning her hair to molten copper, the horse to shining gold, setting off the silver chainmail with black surcoat, bracers and pauldrons, perfectly. The beast that should've been out of control without the strength of arm belonging to a large man, alternated between frisking like she was a filly again, and being as steady and gentle as a retired palfrey for old women. Vivienne found herself in an uncomfortable, and unaccustomed position; admiring another woman's looks, and feeling plain in comparison.

"You have an odd philosophy, darling. How do you know it won't backfire on you?" The First Enchanter retorted, after a moment.

"Nothing is ever entirely certain, madame Du Fer, but I have something of a deserved reputation for punishing betrayal harshly."

"Death threats, sweet? How dull."

"Who said anything about killing traitors? If you're dead, you can't suffer, or be made useful." Somehow, the cheerful grin that accompanied that statement, sent a chill up Vivienne's spine.

 **A/N: Wow, 3 in 1 day... I'm on a roll... Vivienne is so used to subtle manipulations, she sees them, where they aren't...**


	6. Chapter 6 Boss, You're the BEST!

The Iron Bull winced at the reaction from the Herald, when he tried to casually mention that he was Ben-Hassrath, having been ordered to not only get close to the Inquisition leadership, but to keep the Herald from burning herself out. Having her straighten abruptly, eyes flashing, and her fingers clenching on the hilt of her sword, wasn't a good sign.

"You mean the spies and assassins of the Qunari? I know about them, you." The tone was icily calm, the calm of someone controlling a murderous rage. Bull began go sweat, not that it was visible, what with the constant rain on the aptly named Storm Coast.

"After all, my adoptive parents were Tal-Vashoth, and died at the hands of a Tallis and Arvaad pair, on my birthday, no less. Rather a pity they discounted the elf-girl as a threat, not that they survived the mistake." Her gimlet gaze fixed on him, and long experience told Bull that the eerie blueish glow was emotion-amplified magic threatening to break lose from her control. Later, Bull had no idea what made Reva abruptly relax, all threat draining from her.

"Leliana will oversee all of your reports, incoming and outgoing. I even think that you're double-crossing me, and there won't be enough left of you to feed a nug, understood?"

"Sure thing, Boss-"

"Let your people celebrate. I'm going to take you in the field, to test that battle-guard offer of yours, while I hunt my missing people. Cassandra's shield arm is still healing from taking a boulder, so I'm down a spear-catcher, not that she'll rest properly, damn her." The Herald waved over the dark-haired Seeker, the elf with the bow, and the dwarf with the impressive crossbow.

"Cassandra, you co-ordinate with Lieutenant Cremisius Aclassi, over our new hires. I'm taking The Iron Bull, Sera and Varric to find the missing scouts."

"Are you certain, Herald?" the other protested.

"If I thought you'd listen, I'd have you in a bedroll. That mage threw a boulder the size of the new guy, and all but exploded you shield. It took me forever to piece the bone back together, and I am not going to take you out in the field, where you will inevitably forget, and undo all the work I put in to ensure that arm will work for you the rest of your life, Cass. As it is, the best I can do his have you make sure things run smoothly, and set Lace Harding to hit you over the head if she has to." the Boss snapped, but with a hidden grin. Aah, so she was one of those ones- protective of those close to her, a bit of a mother hen, under the bark.

"That was awesome! Boss, I love this job already!" Bull whooped, as stunned Inquisition scouts poked the dead giant, gingerly. A fierce grin came from the elf, as she leaned on a boulder, cleaning her blade with a scrap of cloth cut from a dead 'Vint's shirt.

"You two are sodding mad, is what you are!" Sera, the elven archer protested, recovering her arrows, as she let the potion mend her sprained wrist.

"I second her statement" Varric puffed, lying flat on his back, eyes closed.

"Psh, you can't tell me that you aren't going to have a fun time embellishing the story of Bull actually picking me up, and throwing me at the giant's face, Handsome." the Boss smirked, nudging the dwarf's boot with the toe of her own.

"I _will_ , I just don't want to live through it first, Ginger."

"Ginger?"

"Well, 'Red' is already taken..."

"Try again, or your new nickname is going t be 'Varri-berry'," Her smirk grew at the noise of amused disgust from Sera.

"Freckles? Fang? Tempest?" A denial of each of the increasingly ridiculous nicknames occupied the other three all the way to the discovery of the bodies of the dead scouts. All laughter left them, and the Herald's shoulders got tense.

"Sera, send up the signal for Harding." Was all she said, but Reva began to carefully arrange the bodies, folding their arms across their waists, and closing their eyes.

"They were killed as a message, a _taunt_ to me, by the leader of these 'Blades of Hessarian'. It looks like someone in the group is less than happy, they left me directions for how to challenge for control, by their rules."

"It's probably a trap, you realize." Bull pointed out, carrying the last body to the trees, where the Herald was laying out her dead.

"Of course it is likely to be a trap. The thing is, they think they're baiting a wolf, but they've got a wyvern instead. Unlike most Knight-Enchanters, I don't fight with flashy spells, and even other mages and templars have a hard time sensing me. Very few people in the Inquisition, much less outside it, realize that I am a mage, which means I have an advantage that I am going to exploit to the fullest, Bull."

Four hours later, as Reva cut the leader of the 'Blades of Hessarian' to pieces, without even a hint of magic, while the absolutely _huge_ wolf-mabari took down the mabari cross-breeds that the burly man has tried to set on the elf, Bull personally thought that the fellow had baited a fox, and got a _dragon_ , not a wyvern. Given that she'd just parted the bastard from his head, Bull figured he wouldn't get an argument from the man who'd done said baiting.

"Where did that come from?" Sera asked, pointing at the wolf leaning against Reva's side, panting cheerfully, tongue lolling and displaying long, very sharp looking fangs in a canine grin, as a bushy tail thumped audibly against the elf's greaves.

"City-girl," the redheaded elf mocked the blonde, with a teasing smile, "Snip here has been following us since Haven, Sera. He's half wolf, half mabari, and half grown only."

"He's _huge_ , how do you figure that?" Sera insisted, edging behind Varric, when the canine turned to look at her. "And why 'Snip'? That's a weird name."

"Wolves and Mabari are typically full size at a little over a year, but finish filling out at two to three years, a little longer for Mabari. Snip was too old to be the current year's litter, but not old enough to have been run out of the pack quite yet, probably meaning he was born in a rather late litter last year. Also a big wolf is about a hundred pounds and three feet at the shoulder top,, while mabari tend to run towards the weight of a large man, and stand at three and a half or four feet at the shoulder." Reva said, in between giving directions for the Blades to act as eyes and ears for her on the coast, and detailed who exactly they could rob; bandits primarily, not the common folk, try to avoid hitting nobles that could cause issues, but definitely attack slavers.

"And 'Snip'," Reva laughed as she balanced a piece of bear-jerky on the little white mark on the black muzzle, "because that's what this marking would be called on a horse. _Vexe_!" At the Tevene word for 'toss', the wolf, which had been waiting, despite obvious impatience, tossed his head up, launching the treat, so he could snap it up, midair.

"Good boy!" The beast all but danced in place with pleasure at the praise, and when she scratched behind his ears, he flopped onto his back and rolled and wiggled blissfully. Sera snickered.

"Aw, he's cute innit he?" The wolf yipped and bounced up to lick the blonde' face. "Ugh! Dog breath. Eat some mint or something, why don't you? You're laughing at me, aren't you?"

"Fereldans and dogs..." Varric sighed, eyes dancing.

"Uh-huh, and who taught Hawke's mabari to gamble, according to your own book, Handsome?" Reva asked, chortling. Bull took note of the relaxed interaction between the 'Herald of Andraste' and the others.

 **A/N: Sorry! Don't kill me! This has been finished for a bit, but I had this thing called college...kicking my arse... But i have more for you today...**


	7. Chapter 7 Fallow Mire

Blackwall winced at the spatter of half-liquified, rotten flesh that hit his armor when Varric's bolt blew up the corpse gnawing on his pauldron, as he held three more off the Herald, as she guarded Solas, as her fellow elf worked a major spell. Suddenly icy winds whipped the swamp waters, freezing the horde of undead solid.

"Pull back!" The Herald bellowed, her voice trained to carry across battlefields nearly lost in the howling localized blizzard. "Varric- get the controls for the portcullis!" The mages were holding the Avaar archer down, with carefully aimed bolts or magic; Reva was sending lightning down her sword, while Solas sent ice from his staff. Blackwall had his hands full with the pair of barbarians on the ground, as while they could feel pain, unlike corpses animated by demons, neither were they all but mindless

 _CRASH_! The impact of the iron grate sent a shudder through the soil, leaving the just-thawing undead to mass against it, while the Avaar were distracted by the other one opening. That half-instant was all that the Herald needed; her sword looped to claim one man's head, and a cascade of lightning from the other hand fried the archer that Varric hadn't shot in the face. A solid blow from his shield shattered Blackwall's remaining opponent, thanks to Solas freezing the barbarian into a statue.

"Everyone alright?" Reva asked, producing one of the endless handkerchiefs she had tucked away in various spots in her armor, like most experienced fighters did, and wiping blood from her face with a grimace.

"You just reopened that cut above your eye, Herald," the mage sighed, reaching out a hand with healing energies already on his fingertips.

"It can wait, Solas," She waved him off, tying the cloth in a way to keep the blood out of her eyes. "It isn't hindering my combat abilities, and we're getting close to the Avaar camp, so you'll need all the mana you can horde." The mage pulled a disapproving look, without moving a muscle in his face; Blackwall idly wondered how the elf managed that little trick...

"Herald, I jimmied the lock on the door into tower up here. There's some of that Warden stuff Hero was looking for." Shaking off his tiredness, Blackwall plunged up the stairs eagerly.

"Well, looky here," Reva smirked, pulling a crate out of a hiding spot in the crumbling walls, just out of sight of the waiting Avaar chieftain. "Potions- enough to completely restock ourselves, even. If they're still good." She uncorked a healing draft, and downed it, grimacing. "Yep, still good... Nothing taste quite like a working healing potion." She passed vials about.

"One for the road, Herald?" Varric inquired raising a flask questioningly.

"Good idea, I want everyone in the best shape we can manage for this one." With unhidden grimaces, the others downed their healing draughts. "Mana and Rejuvenation, too." Reva ordered, and led by example, taking one of each, as she was as much a fighter as a mage- more, even.

"Maker, these are foul-tasting," Blackwall shuddered. No one argued.

"Are you the one who challenged me?" The Herald called, voice cool and clear as it carried across the hall.

"I will test you god against mine!" The biggest Avaar bellowed- only for a laugh to halt his advance, in confusion.

"Hardly. I know your ways, fool. You called for single combat between us, holding my followers safety to force my hand, as no honorable warrior would. Nor would any but a _coward_ hide behind the followers he left outside his hold to die, in a swamp, unwilling to share the risk as a good leader must. Now, you arm your witnesses, despite no danger of a threat but any from me- you don't intend to honor your word and challenge, boy. You wanted a slaughter to turn into a victory to boast of, with hollow bragging words." Blackwall watched as the coolly confident words made the Avaar mutter uneasily.

"YOU DARE! I WILL MEET YOU IN BATTLE! ALONE! AND DELIVER YOUR HEAD TO THE FATHER OF MOUNTAINS!" the chieftain bellowed, charging. The Herald stepped into the cleared area of what had once been the main hall, and met the battering ram of a man head on. The _clang_ of her sword meeting the descending greataxe reverberated around the ruined keep, deafeningly. Somehow, impossibly, the elf-mage had caught the axe a foot from her head, in a straight block, and _held it_.

"The Herald is what you call a knight-enchanter, Warden Blackwall," Solas' measured tones explained calmly. "She has trained herself to enhance her physical abilities with her magic. She could easily wield the Iron Bull's axe, or wear your armor if she chose; the armor of a rogue is simply her preference for speed and finesse over brute strength." Indeed, other that that first display, Reva never met the Avaar brute's attacks head-on again. Instead, with the grace of a trained duelist, the elf preferred to simply step aside or duck under the axe, avoiding it by a confidently calculate quarter inch each time, not bothering to make a greater dodge than necessary.

Her serene expression and insulting ease was doing just what Blackwall thought she was aiming for, driving the Avaar into a frothing rage, as she didn't even bother to strike at him very often, making some of the watchers begin to snicker and laugh at how easily Reva toyed with him. The few attacks she _did_ make, were always successful, leaving deep cuts through the furs the barbarian wore, that bled profusely. Blackwall had realized her strategy, to wait and let the formidable sonofabitch weaken himself with exhaustion and blood-loss before she needed to close to finish him off.

The moment didn't take long to arrive. The man staggered as he swung -and missed- again, axe wedging itself into a crack in the paving stones, lodged for a long moment. Almost lazily, yet still almost a blur of speed, Reva set one foot on the haft, just past the blades, her sword flicking out, sliding between ribs to find the sorry bastard's heart, giving him an instant, painless death. A cheer went up from the watching Avaar, as their champion slumped, then she was surrounded.

After a momentary flash of alarm, he realized they were grinning and thumping her back, and his few words of their tongue let Blackwall puzzle out that they were congratulating her on an enthralling spectacle of a fight. Eventually the barbarians piled the personal gear of the dead man in her arms and retreated through the back, up the stairs and through the fallen wall.

"Da'len, you did not have to kill that man. Surely you could simply have disabled him." Solas sounded mildly disapproving.

"Bellanar," She shot back, then turned to face the bald elf squarely, hands on her hips, "You obviously have not spent much time on learning about the Avaar way of life, or you would know why I didn't 'spare' the fool." It was obvious that Solas both thought himself an expert in most cultures, but also was rarely called out on his attitude, given the brief flash of completely blank shock.

"Then teach me, hahren, if you know so much," He snapped back, as Varric finished looking over the released soldiers, and handing out the rest of that crate of potions.

"The Avaar are a warrior culture, and have their own customs and codes of honor around battle, Solas. That one had broken many of them, dishonoring himself, but not hugely so, given that we're uncouth, soft barbarian outsiders to them." Reva explained, as she set the bones in a soldier's leg with magic, healing him just enough to be able to walk on it. "But when I called him out on it, I proved that I was familiar enough with their customs to be considered an honorable foe, even if I am an outsider, and he had to then honor the proposed terms of the single combat to the letter to regain his honor, otherwise, even if he won, he'd have become a pariah for a season." She splinted the half-healed leg with some discarded spear-shafts and strips of the dead Avaar's roughly-woven clothes.

"I do not see why that meant you had to kill him," Solas objected, even though he carefully steadied Reva, when tiredness made her stagger slightly as she stood.

"I was challenged as Chieftain-to-Cheiftan, Solas, in that circumstance, the fight is always to the death. If I'd 'spared' him, it would be the mark of ultimate contempt, the ultimate in dishonor, one that cannot be expunged. He would have become... the term they have roughly translates to 'dead that is yet to come'. He would have been branded, with a mark that meant no Avaar would help him, speak to him, or even admit to having seen him at all. He would be less than a beast in their eyes, and most Avaar who have that happen kill themselves rather than even receive the brand. Given that he was a devotee of the Mountain-Father, who is rather less pragmatic and more hotheaded than the Sky-Mother, it was all but guaranteed that he'd kill himself in a spectacular and painful manner in order to be worthy of entering the Halls of his Ancestors." There was a long pause, where Solas was thoughtfully silent.

"Begging your pardon, your worship, but...How do you know so much about the Avaar?" The leader of the rescued Inquisition people asked deferentially, asking the question that was on Blackwall's mind. Reva laughed, as she finished bundling the furs, gold, jewelry and weapon of the dead man into her pack, opting to use the axe as a walking stick, given the way she leaned on it.

"I thought all the Inquisition knew by now that I was a merc, for a good half my life." She replied, as they slowly set off towards the nearest established camp in the Mire. A merc? That... was unexpected...

"I've had shield-brothers-and-sisters of pretty much every race and creed, short of practicing qunari, in the companies I served in. Even ex-priestesses of the Qun. I made a point of getting drunk at least once with everyone I was leading; learn about their culture and you learn a lot about how someone thinks, what makes them tick, what weakness they have that they don't even know they are blind to." She said easily, and looped an arm around a fellow who probably had a healing concussion given how his path wavered, in order to subtly steer him from ending up in the undead-filled water.

Blackwall considered that information. Getting to know your people on a personal level, that built bonds of loyalty and trust... But if she'd been a Merc, at the Conclave, that would mean most of the people she worked with, trusted her life to, and they trusted her with theirs, were likely dead... That certainly explained the careful emotional distance she kept from everyone. She welcoming friendship and reciprocated it, certainly, but she worked to keep it... superficial, to remain unattached. Not even the most hardened soul could come away from losing what was essentially her family, all at one go, without scars.


	8. Chapter 8 Manners

Sera was in the pub, when the Herald surprised her by sitting down across the battered, but sturdy table, and shoving a tankard of Sera's favorite beer, well of the ones a dinky little spot on the map like Haven had, over to her. Reva was easy on the eyes, with the height full tits and muscular arse that were the best part of human women, but with the lean grace that was the best of elves. It also helped that she wasn't an elf-y elf, and would shut the egghead up when he harassed Sera too much, or got a bit too full of himself.

"Whatcha want, your Heraldness?" Sera cocked her head at the older woman. Bull was right, redhead were- _yum_. Reva pulled a faint grimace.

"I _do_ have a name, even a preferred nickname, but no one seems to remember it," She sighed, then gave a tiredly wicked grin at Sera. "I want easy company at the moment, honestly. It's been a long day, and it's two hours till noon still."

"Is it Lady Frilly-knickers, or Madame Iron-britches?" That startled a snicker from the Herald, and some of the weight seemed to fall from her shoulders.

"Well, I got back from sparring with Cassandra, lest she go mad with boredom or bruise Blackwall's glass again," The reference made both grin, "Only to find Chancellor Stuffed-Shirt egging a mage and ex-templar one, with Commander Lion trying to keep the peace and refrain from decking the Chancellor... Then Josie cornered me again for politics, and to teach me formal manners. I escape that, and our resident Iron Lady decides she should start harping on how dangerous and untrustworthy the rebel mages are, etc. etc. Then she lets me know she thought I planned the little speech in Val Royeaux to manipulate the crowds and templars. What the Void is wrong with that woman that she sees political games in every syllable, I ask you? When I tell her flat out that the whole mess was unplanned, unrehearsed, and spoken straight from my heart, in the moment, what do I get? A lecture on how I can't afford to be spontaneous in the role of Herald of Andraste, around so many politicians, a position said politicians, with the addition of Cassandra and the Commander, literally dumped on me while I was passed out from stabilizing the sodding breach, without giving me a chance to object!"

"Big folk pissing on little folks' lives, without a care. Same fucking story everywhere, I tell you, yeah?" Sera commiserated, figuring that Reva just needed to vent a bit. "Arses, all of them, I tell you." Reva slumped inelegantly in her seat, and yanked a hood over her distinctive hair, as a messenger entered, glancing around the table.

"Anyone know where the Herald is?" The tit asked the tavern at large. A few glances at Reva, who waved her hands in a hasty negating gesture, and a general chorus of denial went up. The man sighed and wandered out.

"Who sent Hapless Jim to look for me?" Reva snickered.

"Hapless Jim? Is that actually his name?"

"James Smithson, actually, but, he goes by Jim. The 'hapless' title is because, well... the poor? fellow is entirely clueless socially, and has the worst luck and coordination I've ever seen. Or perhaps he actually has good luck, to have survived so far..." the other elf mused.

"You got a good story for that, Swift?" Varric asked, depositing his beer on the table, and having to perform an awkward sort of hop to get into the chairs that were slightly too tall to be comfortable for an elf, much less a dwarf.

"How many people do you know that could trip on a chicken, to fall into the stack of sacks of Threnn's freshly sharpened and delivered swords, and knock a crate of daggers on himself in the process, and come out of it with only a few bruises?"

"That takes..talent."

"Then, every time he has to run a message from Cullen to Leliana or Josie, I swear he makes a prayer to the Maker and Andraste, as there doesn't seem to be a set of stairs around that he can't trip on. If a bowl or drink spills, it will get on him, if a blade goes flying in practice, it will manage to hit him, in the one spot he didn't manage to cover, or have armor on." Reva sighed, with a laugh in her voice. "Yet he's still the most awkwardly cheerful, patient soul in the camp. There is a reason he's assigned as Cullen and Cassandra's personal messenger. Any growling and snarling either goes over his head, or washes right past him without getting to him, I haven't figured out which..."

"There you are!" Bull chortled appearing in the door of the tavern closest to them. "Josephine's looking for you again, something about lessons in tactful insults..." Reva's glare made him drop into a chair with a laugh, the furniture, a sturdy piece, if Sera knew her tavern chairs, creaking warningly.

"What did you do, Boss? It takes a lot to irritate that woman, or make the Nightingale smirk and cackle like that." Reva flushed.

"The Comte was an arse, a lech, a racist, and here only to mock the Inquisition's status as we're apparently all 'debased heretic sluts'. Apparently a woman's place is to be seen not heard, as decorative spineless wallflowers, or in the bedroom, especially his bed. Elves should be grateful that he finds us attractive, and not object to him trying to put his hand up our tunics." Reva snapped.

"Whoa there, Boss, I'm not judging." Bull raised his hands up placatingly. Those hands made Sera idly wonder about what a female qunari's hands would be like...

"Noble tits, always after elvhen arse," She grumbled aloud. "Hope you broke his fingers."

"Better yet, she called him-"

"A tiny-minded wiper of the powerful's arses, a bastard who thought with his dick, and a pissing coward in tights." Josephine supplied, entering the tavern with a shocking familiarity for a noble flower. A smoking hot lady, but a noble... Leliana, the scary one, was with her, a slight smirk on her lips, that was quite unnerving compared to the usual coldly impassive mask.

"She then proceeded to kick him in the groin, and as he fell, knee him in the jaw. Which of the two caused him to be rendered unconscious, is uncertain. The Comte's people have gathered him, and left, Herald. There will be repercussions-"

"I am not apologizing to him, or for my actions, Josie, and I can and will repeat them against anyone else who thinks that courtesy or some bullshit ingrained social construction will make me allow them to try to take advantage of me in any way." Reva's tone was flat, and said quite eloquently that anyone trying to argue with her on the subject would be better of screaming at the Breach to close itself.

"You're actions against his assault of your person will not be remarked on, Herald. They are similar, if more violent, direct and effective than what many women would respond with. However, to have you cursing like a common soldier..." The noble woman fluttered.

"It may have escaped your notice, but I _was_ a common soldier, a mercenary in fact, until the title of 'Herald of Andraste', and all the bullshit attached to that was dropped on me."

"Herald, please... It would make my job much easier if you refrained from such blatant profanity." Damn, Lady Frilly-Knickers was way too good at the disappointed look, and guilt trip. It was like kicking a mabari puppy... Except mabari puppies didn't have a magnificent set of tits, and a sexy-as-fuck accent. Reva winced, then sighed.

"Fine, next time I will imply that his parents ought to be introduced to each other, although it is likely that they as closely enough related he would be a sandwich if they were any more related. I'll add in that his intelligence matches the emotional rage of a Tranquil, and that he does his thinking with the wrong head entirely, and that he might wish to see a Healer about his cranial-rectal impacture before he suffocates in his own feces." Was the tart reply. Sera had to cackle at that one; Varric, Bull, and Leliana were laughing, and Lady Loves-Ruffles lips were twitching as she tried not to smile.

"I suppose that will have to do."


End file.
